


The Noblewoman's Guide to Marriage and Marauding

by flightofthelunamoths



Category: The Gentleman's Guide to Vice and Virtue Series - Mackenzi Lee
Genre: F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Misogyny, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Pirates, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-03-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23012632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flightofthelunamoths/pseuds/flightofthelunamoths
Summary: Lady Eleanor Montague, Countess of Disley, has been raised as a lady and a member of English aristocracy from birth. But when the truth of Lord Montague's past indiscretions come to light, it sets off a chain of events that even the wildest of imaginations couldn't have predicted. Luckily for her, a man far more gentle than these so-called "gentlemen" is there to catch her and show her that sometimes, falling from grace is actually the road to redemption.
Relationships: Henry "Monty" Montague & Scipio, Henry "Monty" Montague/Percy Newton
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	The Noblewoman's Guide to Marriage and Marauding

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [dear mother](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20904839) by [goldenthunderstorms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenthunderstorms/pseuds/goldenthunderstorms). 



"Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you." -Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

“My lady, this has just arrived for you.” Sinclair says, dipping into a shallow bow as he presents me with a cream-colored missive.

I flick my eyes up to stare at him for a moment, arching one eyebrow at him in irritation before I finally reach out to accept the letter. No matter how many times I insist that he drop all unnecessary airs outside of the presence of Henri or any such formal company, Sinclair still insists on “honoring my place in society” or some other nonsense. 

It really is quite exhausting, even after all these years. I cannot help but savor the brief moments in which I get to exist as something other than my place in society, as someone other than Lady Eleanor Montague, Countess of Disley. Though such moments are even fewer and far between these days.

After making certain that Sinclair and his prying, judgmental eyes have gone from the room, I turn the letter over to examine the wax seal. Though the application is uneven and the wax low quality, I would still be able to recognize the crest of my eldest son’s signet ring anywhere. 

Henry, my darling boy, has finally written to me.

I break the seal with barely contained excitement, my fingers fluttering with nerves ever so slightly as I hurry to unfold the parchment. I cannot lie, I had given up hope of ever hearing from him again some months ago, after enough time had passed following the arrival of his final letter to his father that I could no longer convince myself that the courier had been diverted or perhaps even taken ill.

I must also admit to my own shortcomings in the current state of our relationship that would justify him not writing. Despite my best efforts using every means at my disposal as a wife and a lady, I was unable to dissuade Henri from continuing to use his preferred method of disciplining his heir - beating him bloody, for lack of a more accurate description. 

While Henry may believe me to not have lifted a finger to help him, let alone having cared about his mistreatment at all, that belief is in fact preferable to him knowing the truth of the matter. That he was not the only one in this household to have felt the wrath and judgment of our great Lord Montague, let alone being the only one to have suffered at his hands.

I made certain that Henry would have no knowledge of our lord curtailing their “private conversations” a countless number of times, based solely on the knowledge of our arrangement: that I bear the vast majority of his anger towards Henry later that night in our bedchamber, in any manner of physical exertion that he deemed desirable at the time.

Such is the way of being a mother, is it not? Bearing any and all hardships out of love for our children with nary a word and never any recognition.

Besides, seeing the way that Henry would still flinch and curl in on himself like a cowering dog any time his father’s attention landed on him, then gaze at me with those little boy eyes that would silently plead, “Mother, why do you never help me?” 

It hurt my heart and broke my spirit far more than any beating ever could.

I sniff quietly and shake myself out of those maudlin thoughts, unable to change the past but desperate for a better future. Desperate for any sign or indication that reconciliation with my Henry is possible, and this letter is more hope than I’ve had in years. Taking as deep of a breath as my unforgiving stays and bodice allow me, I brace myself before finally tucking in.

_Dearest Mother,_

_I have spent countless hours trying to decipher whether writing this letter to you would be received as a blessing, or more of a curse. Both Percy and Felicity are of the opinion that it is better to let sleeping dogs lie, and that revealing these truths would only serve to hurt and unsettle you._

_However, I have cause to disagree, in the form of something that they are not privy to. They do not have the same memories of you as I do. Of us spending countless hours together in the gardens when I was a restless little tyke, of you allowing me to hide amongst your skirts when I felt shy around visitors you were hosting, how we were inseparable before Felicity and then Percy came into the picture. Even the memories from when I was older, the way you tried to stop Father the first time he struck me in front of you and how you’d do your best to hide as many of my indiscretions as possible from him, seem to have come from a place of love. I would ask you to forgive me for blatantly bringing up such a disagreeable matter, but what I am about to share with you is much more unpleasant. However, I do it out of love, just as you have done in the past for me._

_As there is no way to break this gently, especially in the form of a letter, I shall just go on with it: The Duke of Bourbon did me the grand favor of enlightening me to all of Father’s escapades that he embarked upon while at French court, the debauchery of which rivals my own past behavior and even exceeds it. The worst of it involved him running away with a French woman, before promptly trying to abandon her. The woman’s father found out and forced them to wed in an attempt to salvage her reputation, but still Father called upon a favor from the Duke to help him flee the situation. The Duke in turn helped him to escape the Continent in secret and ultimately marry you, though they were both aware that his original union with the French woman was never properly dissolved. I have it on good authority that your marriage is invalid._

_Though the Duke of Bourbon himself perished in an unfortunate incident with a panacea heart and sinking island (don’t ask), there was a second witness to this revelation, one Helena Robles. I will not reveal her location for fear of something untoward befalling her at Father’s hand, though I seriously doubt that she’d ever concern herself with an English nobleman’s marriage in the first place._

_I have revealed this information solely so that you may do with it as you please. I do this not to harm your place in society or hurt your opinion of Father, only to arm you with knowledge that has the power to change your life and circumstances if you so wish. Rest assured that Percy, Felicity, nor I have the intention to tell any other living souls about this matter (though I did hint at the knowledge in my farewell letter to Father, that may not have been the best idea now that I think of it). On the off chance that you find yourself in need of assistance or wish to keep in touch, simply call upon a man by the name of Scipio. He’s a privateer for the English crown and has been kind and honorable enough to aid us in the past. I daresay that we even consider him a friend at this point, so know that you would be in good hands if you so choose._

_I pray that whatever path you decide upon, you find happiness at the end of it, as I have._

_Yours,_

_Henry Montague_

It takes me a moment to process just what exactly I have just read, and it takes five read-throughs before I finally start to believe that it is in fact a letter written in my son’s own hand, informing me that the marriage that I’ve spent the past two decades honoring is illegitimate.

I must admit, there always has been a small part of me that has held onto hope throughout the years that somehow, some way, I would be able to free myself of the dark shadow that is Lord Montague one day. The simplest solution has always been to outlast him in health and spend the remainder of my years as an old yet comfortable widow. And in my angriest moments, pouring just enough cyanide into his evening drink has been a persistent fantasy of mine. I would just have to cast the blame on his political enemies and all would be solved.

But this? This changes everything. And it does not just affect me; Adrian’s future is tied up in it as well. This means that not only him but all three of my children, by technicality, are bastards. I do not know if Henry realizes just powerful and potentially explosive this information is, even just being made aware of it. My sweet, blissfully ignorant, well-meaning boy has doomed me.

“What is that?”

The sound of Henri’s voice, his tone slightly bored and as entitled as ever, jerks me out of my absentminded contemplation with a start. I was too distracted to hear him enter the room, and his presence catches me by surprise. I watch with ever increasing horror as the letter flies out of my hand when I jump, only to slowly float through the air down to rest on the floor between us, a veritable loaded gun in the form of one sheet of creamy parchment.

His dark eyes are fixed upon my face, searching my expression for clues as he waits expectantly for an answer. I rack my brain for an excuse, any excuse, but the stark truth of it all has shocked me enough that I can think of nothing else. He’s a scoundrel, my husband is a scoundrel.

He’s not even my husband.

Finding my tongue frozen, I panic and make a dive for the letter, but my petticoats twist around my legs as I lunge out of the chair. I’m sent sprawling forward into a graceless heap on the floor, barely managing to catch myself on my forearms. Henri simply reaches down and snatches the parchment up and away from my outstretched hand before the word “No!” can finish passing from my lips.

I am staring down the barrel of the gun now.

I don’t bother hauling myself up off the ground just yet, instead hanging my head in defeat for a moment. I would prefer to stay sprawled upon the carpet rather than having to watch as my lord, jailer, abuser, and faux husband discovers the leverage I have only just been presented with myself, but I refuse to allow myself to be brought low by him once more.

I huff slightly as I push myself up, muscles shaking and my body as weak as ever from the extreme diet that Henri continues to force upon me via the servants, meant to help me regain my figure after having birthed Adrian over a year prior.

I’ve had to bite my tongue countless times to stop myself from informing him that a woman having born three children should not be expected to fit into the same dresses she wore as a bright-eyed young bride. But at the very least, my slow starvation has managed to keep me from fighting back against him, I’ll give him that much.

I rise shakily to my feet, only staggering a bit before I catch myself on the small side table and straighten my posture in quiet defiance. I watch with stiff upper lip as Henri scans the letter, his own lip curling slightly at its sentimental beginning. Of course a man with a heart as black as his wouldn’t be able to recognize love if it struck him between the legs.

When his eyes suddenly fly up to meet mine, his thoughts and emotions indistinguishable in their dark depths, I know that he has reached the most important part. Knowing that I am not the only person in this room with something to lose if he decides to take the shot is little reassurance as I watch and wait for his finger to curl around the metaphorical trigger.

While Henry played his part in dooming me by sending the letter, I have only myself to blame now.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please bear with me a bit as I get used to this, I'm a fresh convert from FF.net to AO3. Tags and archive warnings will be updated as needed while this ship sails itself off into the sunset, in whichever direction it wants to go. I am merely a passenger on this voyage.  
> Also, shout-out to the work Dear Mother by goldenthunderstorms (PotatosaurusOfBroadway), which very very loosely inspired this. It made me start wondering about the character of Monty's mother as a whole, and the name Eleanor that they came up with seemed pretty canon to me, so I took it and ran with it. Hope that's okay!


End file.
